


Thunderstorm

by MayGlenn



Series: May's February Ficlet Challenge 2019 [11]
Category: Starsky & Hutch
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, Insomnia, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Vietnam War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-12
Updated: 2019-02-12
Packaged: 2019-10-26 22:34:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17754758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MayGlenn/pseuds/MayGlenn
Summary: Hutch liked thunderstorms. They helped him sleep deeply. He liked the rumble, which comforted him like Starsky’s snores. And it was the absence of Starsky’s snores that woke him now.He woke to the patter of rain on the roof and the windows. It was really coming down: a good warm summer rain. He patted the bed next to him, but it was empty. He listened for sounds in the bathroom, but heard nothing. A flash of lightning had him sitting up.What was Starsky doing outside?





	Thunderstorm

Hutch liked thunderstorms. They helped him sleep deeply. He liked the rumble, which comforted him like Starsky’s snores. And it was the absence of Starsky’s snores that woke him now. 

He woke to the patter of rain on the roof and the windows. It was really coming down: a good warm summer rain. He patted the bed next to him, but it was empty. He listened for sounds in the bathroom, but heard nothing. A flash of lightning had him sitting up.

What was Starsky doing outside?

“Starsk?” Hutch went to the door, calling, but Starsky was just standing there, in the rain, on his front lawn, hunched a little like he was cold, or hiding from something, but not moving. “Starsky!” 

Grabbing a jacket to hold over his head, Hutch jogged out to join him. One look at Starsky’s thousand-yard stare told him what was wrong. Starsky didn’t get them often, but since they started sleeping together Hutch had learned that Starsky sometimes had dreams about the war. He saw a doctor about it, who called it a post-traumatic-stress thing, and he even went to therapy sometimes. They didn’t know what set it off, really. Rain did, sometimes. Luckily, gunfire never did. Sometimes just not getting enough sleep, or sometimes too much. Dobey knew about it, but since it only manifested as sleepwalking and insomnia, it wasn’t enough to relieve him of duty—luckily. Hutch had heard about plenty of Viet Nam vets who lost their jobs and only got worse with nothing to do. 

Hutch didn’t touch him until he got fully in his vision. “Dave? David?” 

Hutch always felt weird calling him that, but it helped snap him out of military mode. He touched one shoulder, and one hand. “You’re getting all wet. You don’t have to be out in the rain like this.” 

“Have ta…” Starsky began, water dripping down his nose, and then he blinked and looked around, coming awake, suddenly, and then seemed to realize where he was. “I was guarding…” 

“You don’t have to guard anything, buddy,” Hutch told him firmly, squeezing his shoulders. “Come on inside with me?” 

“I—” Starsky buckled, a little, loosened up, and Hutch pressed him against his chest. 

“It’s okay, Starsk. Come with me.” 

Starsky went with him, in out of the hot rain. Being inside, dripping on Hutch’s hardwood floors, snapped him out of it further. “Damn it, uh, where—Hutch, I’m sorry, I—” 

A crash of thunder made Starsky jump, which he was immediately even more embarrassed about. “I’m sorry. I’m okay. Just a dream. Dreamed I was—”

He didn’t finish, didn’t want to. 

“Starsk,” Hutch said, carefully. He was worried, but mostly worried that Starsky felt so terrible, so rattled and ashamed because of it. Hutch would have said anything to make him feel better, but this was the truth: “I’m not gonna tell anyone. You’re fine. Let’s get you into some dry clothes, okay?” 

“Yeah. Yeah, I can—I can do it myself.” 

“I don’t want you dripping  _ all  _ over my house,” Hutch laughed, leading Starsky into the tiled part of his kitchen and tossing dish towels over the wet trail to the door. “Hang tight, I’ll be right back. Why don’t you make us some tea?” 

Starsky was glad to have something to do, and he filled the kettle to heat water on the stove. He had a weird impulse to touch the stove to see if his skin was real, but he managed to listen to himself that that would be stupid, so instead he spent the unsupervised time on his hands and knees, mopping up the floor. When Hutch got back, he had the decency to not point out that he was dripping over the places he had just dried, and instead wrapped him in a beach towel that smelled of suntan lotion and salt. 

“I didn’t bring you clothes. I was hoping we could just cuddle naked in bed,” Hutch told him, and sure enough, he had already stripped down to his birthday suit, which always made Starsky smile. “Maybe even sleepwalking, you’d think twice about standing out in the rain naked. You cold?” 

“Nah, I—” Starsky shivered, on his knees on the floor, and Hutch crouched in front of him and pulled him into a hug. “I don’t know.” 

“You wanna get undressed or you want me to?” 

“I got it,” Starsky said, firmly, and stood up, firmly. All his muscles were still tight, like he’d been clenching them, tense, for hours. He knew the feeling: he remembered waiting in the rain in the hot jungles of Viet Nam, knowing death could come for him anywhere, and terrified of getting trigger-happy and shooting one of the good guys. That was the worst part. The rain must have reminded him enough of that feeling that his dreams turned to the war, and Starsky was a notorious sleepwalker, anyway.

“Sorry I walked out on you,” Starsky said. Taking his clothes off in the middle of his boyfriend’s kitchen helped him to forget about that. Hutch got tea bags down from his top shelf, and the scent of mint helped relax him even further. As did the sight of Hutch’s ass. 

“I keep saying, the only way can you ever walk out on me is if you’re fast asleep.” 

They both smiled at that, and Hutch steeped the tea. 

“You wanna sit on the couch and watch some late night TV?” 

“Maybe,” Starsky said. “While we drink the tea?”

“Sure.” 

Hutch toweled off Starsky’s hair while Starsky flipped through the channels, and they shared a blanket and pressed themselves together on half the couch. There was nothing more interesting on than something in Spanish that Hutch tried to translate for him until he got sleepy. 

“Here, you better at least sleep on me,” Starsky suggested, “so I don’t get any ideas.” 

“I don’t think you will,” Hutch said confidently—and it was true, Starsky usually stuck to one post-traumatic-stress-dream a night—but stretched out on top of him, anyway, pillowing his cheek on Starsky’s hairy chest. It felt better that way, for both of them. “Sleep if you can. Move me if you need to,” Hutch murmured. 

“I will,” Starsky promised, but he stayed awake until the rain stopped. 

**Author's Note:**

> Eleventh in the February Ficlet Challenge of 2019. The prompt was "Character A can't sleep."


End file.
